


I still hear and I still see

by merle_p



Category: Firefly, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, Serenity (2005), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today is not one of these days. Today Clint's elbow is hurting from where he rolled away to avoid a bullet aimed at his head. Today Coulson came close to bleeding out because he stepped in front of Clint and into the path of the bullet meant for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I still hear and I still see

**Author's Note:**

> None of this is mine. Joss Whedon made them, I borrowed them. Title is a quote from the "Ballad of Serenity" by Sonny Rhodes.
> 
> Vague spoilers for "The Avengers" and for "Firefly"

Clint is lurking in the hallway outside the infirmary, hiding in the beams underneath the stairs to the upper level of the ship. Captain Fury has long given up on lecturing him about eavesdropping and sneaking up on people, but he doesn't know that a big part of why Clint does it is the way Coulson always shakes his head and smiles when he finds him there, saying that someone of Clint's size should not possibly be able to fit into such a narrow space, according to the law of mathematics.

Then Clint will flash him a grin, tell him that he should know by now how little the laws of physics matter to someone who can move things with his brain, and jump down to the floor to follow Coulson to the kitchen, where Clint will make green tea for the both of them while Coulson reads to him in Mandarin from whatever book he managed to find on the last planet they'd done business on.

Today is not one of these days. Today Clint's elbow is hurting from where he rolled away to avoid a bullet aimed at his head. Today Coulson came close to bleeding out because he stepped in front of Clint and into the path of the bullet meant for him.

Clint can hear Dr. Banner's quiet voice through the door of the infirmary as he gives instructions, calm and soothing the way it always is when he's not having one of his attacks, hears Rogers' murmured and Thor's rumbling answers without paying attention to what they say. Tony has long disappeared in the engine room again, and when he last saw Natasha, she was headed for her bunk, where she's most likely occupying herself with sharpening her knives, and Clint knows that he should either find something to do as well, or just step inside the infirmary and offer his help, but he cannot seem to bring himself to move.

The thing is: He should not be surprised. Because it's just like Coulson to do something stupidly heroic, it's just like him to ignore the obvious fact that Clint Barton's mind is screwed up beyond repair and that a bullet to the brain could only improve the mess the Alliance scientists have made of it. And Clint cannot decide whether to be more angry at Coulson, for stubbornly choosing to believe in him anyway, at himself, for not being strong enough to push the man away for his own good, or at the Alliance for everything they did to him in the weeks he was their prisoner, for killing the boy he used to be, for creating the monster he is.

"Barton?" Rogers says from below his feet, and Clint draws his mind back to where his body has already registered the non-threatening nature of the intruder. Rogers looks exhausted, rubbing his hands as if he's still trying to wash the blood off his fingers, but when he sees that he's got Clint's attention, his movements still, and he frowns, tiredly and unhappily.

"He will be okay," he offers, and Clint can't stop his shoulders from sagging in relief, even as he's annoyed with Steve for saying what he already knew, technically.

"Okay is a relative term, in the colloquial sense of the word," Clint says, and then bites his tongue, because this is not what he meant to say at all. He hates when this happens, when his brain makes him say things like that, things he'd never even have thought of, before … before.

But Rogers doesn't say anything, just sighs and drags a hand over his hair, every strand still in place even after a gun fight on one of these _gǒurì de_ desert planets, after hours of assisting with a surgery, and Clint is reminded once again that Rogers is core-born, raised on Osiris just like Coulson.

There used to be a time when he was jealous of their shared heritage, the things they had in common – their polite language, their refined tastes, the way they kept their emotions under wraps – until he realized that what the two of them shared was not a privilege, but a burden, a residual guilt, a deep-rooted grief. After that, all he felt was pity, and then guilt for pitying them, and for being jealous of their friendship in the first place.

"I'm sorry," he says, for what exactly he isn't sure, and Rogers doesn't ask.

"This was not your fault, Barton," he says instead. "Coulson made a decision."

"The wrong one," Clint snaps, and Rogers raises a brow.

"Why don't you give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he knew what he was doing?" he asks. "He usually has good reasons for his actions. But maybe you should talk to him yourself." He nods towards the infirmary before he walks off towards the living quarters, and Clint waits until he is out of sight before he jumps off the beam.

When he sneaks into the room, Dr. Banner smiles at him weakly, says: "There you are." He is putting away his instruments, sterilizing them carefully before storing them away, and Clint chooses to focus on his steady movements instead of the silent body in the bed alongside the wall.

"He was lucky," the doctor continues, when he has decided that Clint is not going to reply. "The bullet didn't hit anything vital. We took the metal out, weaved him back together. A couple of days, and he should be able to walk around."

Clint still doesn't say anything, and the doctor gives him another quick smile before turning around to close the last drawer.

"I need to go clean up and find something to eat," he says casually. "Would you mind keeping an eye on him until I've talked to the captain?"

"Estimated time of return: in three hours, 15 minutes," Clint says, flinching slightly at the sound of his own voice, and Dr. Banner pats his shoulder when he walks past him.

"I'll be back in four."

Four hours are four times sixty minutes, are 240 minutes, are 240 times sixty seconds, are 14,400 seconds: too long when you are kneeling in the dirt with a foreign sun burning hot in your neck while you are pressing your shirt against Coulson's ribs to stench the flow of the blood that keeps seeping out, coloring the once purple fabric a blackish brown, and …

"Clint," someone says, Coulson says, only his voice is all wrong, weak and hoarse and almost pleading, and it is the wrongness of the sound that breaks the spell and finally allows Clint to move, to cross the room to the bed at the opposite wall of the infirmary.

"What were you doing all the way over there?" Coulson asks softly. His skin is grey, his eyes bloodshot.

Clint frowns. "I see better from a distance," he says, defensively, and Coulson makes a noise that could be a cough just as well as a laugh.

"That would be more convincing if you'd actually been looking at me," he says, and then he actually starts coughing, shoulders shaking with the rattling breaths he keeps choking on.

Clint flounders, fumbles, almost knocks over the glass of water that is already sitting on the counter next to the bed, but finally manages to bring it to Coulson's lips, one hand gently cupping the back of his head for support.

The skin is warm under his fingers, the short hair in his neck scratchy against his palm. Coulson's hair is all grey now, silvery, which Coulson sometimes blames Clint for, but Clint knows that it is not his fault, although he wouldn't feel too bad if it was, because he secretly likes it that way.

He watches Coulson take little sips, watches a drop of water make its way from his upper lip to the corner of his mouth and then down his chin.

"I do see you," he says, when Coulson finally has settled back down, and he isn't sure why it is so important that Coulson knows this, but he repeats it nevertheless.

"I don't need to be in the same room to see you."

It's the truth, but it does not make sense, like most things that happen in Clint's head these days. Coulson however just nods, like he understands Clint perfectly well, and the thing is, he usually does.

"I know," he says, smiling slightly, and does not move his fingers away when Clint reaches for his hand, touching the knuckles fleetingly, more like a breeze than a caress.

" _Xiao ying_ ," he says, "I know."


End file.
